The Horror Of Our Love
by TheSymmetricalist
Summary: She was insane. Yeah, that had to be it. She was utterly, entirely insane. Because a sane person would not allow a homicidal maniac to live with them. Loosely inspired by the ludo song of the same name. Oneshot.


**Hey, so, I've never, ever written a JTHM fanfic, but I was really, really into the comics as a kid (messed up little twerp, i was) and this story came to me one night about a year ago.**

 **I finished it but never did anything with it, and i don't like it when stuff just sits unread in my computer, so here, have a looksy.**

 **Maybe you'll like it :)**

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She was insane. Yeah, that had to be it. She was utterly, entirely insane.

She had always heard that good artists were insane. People sometimes asked if she was insane, and she didn't really know how to respond to that. So she just shrugged and let them believe that maybe she was insane.

But she never thought of herself as insane. She wasn't normal, normal was boring, and she knew that. But insane is a strong word. Crazy is one thing, she would easily admit that yes, she was a little crazy. Everyone was. But insane meant that you did irrational things, things that those who fell under the category of "sane" would never think to do.

And she could remember a time when even _thinking_ about doing something like this could classify her as insane, so perhaps there was a time when she was sane. But whether there was or not, it didn't matter now. She was insane now. She had to be.

 _Because a sane person would not allow a homicidal maniac to live with them._

It was perhaps a bit stupid, she knew that. She knew everything now. She knew he had tried to kill her. She knew the horrible things he had done in the past. She knew about the nightmare inducing horrors he had wreaked upon this town. She knew why people looked at him kind of funny, because as dumb as the majority of people in this town were, they had miraculously caught on to the undeniable fact that once a person came into contact with him, they were never seen again.

And any sane person would know that letting a man with his kind of history sleep under the same roof as them at night was simply suicide.

So, she supposed that she was also suicidal now.

But along with knowing all the bad things about him, it seemed unfair not to consider the good things as well. Like the fact that he was trying to change. The fact that a lot of his insanity, and the reasons for him becoming this way, were mostly due to the fact that he had never, ever been shown love or affection of any sort. That he was right for being mad at those who treated him badly, but was never told that chopping off their body parts was perhaps not the best way to deal with them.

Plus, he was plagued by what was a form of schizophrenia for years and years. But one day it sort of stopped. Paused, if you will. And he was both relieved and afraid. And he didn't know how to deal with it. And that's when he asked her for help. And that's when she told him she would try her best to help him.

And that's when he moved in, taking nothing but the clothes on his back and a box full of frightening, ridiculous drawings and his HNB comics.

And she helped him, she really did her best, to try and make him less afraid of what may happen next. Because he was mostly afraid of hurting her, of having his homicidal tendencies unpause all of a sudden and he'd lash out at her without warning and try to hurt her again. But he also didn't want to be away from her. Because she was like a medicine to him, she had a strange, calming effect on him, just by her being within sight he felt calmer, stronger. But as addicting as it was to be calmed by her presence, he preferred it when she wasn't around, when he could be alone on the couch drawing while she was at work, where she was safe from his unpredictable fits that he did still have at times. Fits in which he would rip apart a pillow just because he felt annoyed with it, or he had seen something on TV that made him upset and he would throw the entire thing out the window. He never laid a finger on her though, not yet at least. And he never had his fits when she was around, she would just come home and see a mess and ask what ticked him off this time, and depending upon the response, she would either fall to the floor laughing about his vivid description of carnage, his dramatic portrayal of the evil object that was unlucky enough to cross his path, or she would stare at him with this look of "Stop destroying my stuff, you psycho" until he apologized and cleaned it up in front of her.

In short, she no longer kept a TV in the house. After replacing it twice, she decided rather quickly that it wasn't a necessity and that both she, and he, could live without it.

She also decided, after a horrible incident with a couple of roaches and a can of spaghettios, that they could live without a blender as well.

But one thing she had been questioning lately, especially now as she sat next to him on the couch, watching him mindlessly run a pencil over a piece of paper over and over again, making long gray lines for seemingly no reason at all, what were her feelings for him? His were unclear, of course, he wasn't a romantic, and even if he wanted to be he wouldn't know how to. She loved him, she knew that, but it seemed like it was the kind of love you'd give to a puppy with a broken paw, not the kind of romantic love that she was thinking of.

Although she wasn't entirely opposed to the idea of being with him relationship wise, it seemed unreasonable to expect that kind of responsibility from him in the state that he was in. It would probably put too much pressure on him, he'd see himself as "the Boyfriend," a title he didn't see himself ever fitting into ever again. And he'd probably get nervous, try too hard or worry that he was trying too little, and snap. He'd get jealous if she mentioned another man, and would immediately go out and slice the guy to pieces.

Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would just be okay with it, and nothing would change between them at all. Maybe he'd simply see it as being permission to tell her she looks beautiful when she paints and it not be considered being creepy, because he did think that she was beautiful, all the time, but he didn't tell her because he felt like he didn't have permission to. Not anymore, like he use to back when they were dating for like a day.

But he loved her. And he did want to be with her, and he thought about asking her to be with him in "that way," but feared the outcome would result in him getting kicked out or something. Even if she wouldn't be with him, he knew that in a way, he was with her, because no woman would ever do this for him, help him and forgive him and be patient with him the way she was.

And he knew for a fact that he would never love another woman the way he loved her.

And she knew that as long as he was with her, there was no more dating around to be done. Even if they never ended up kissing or becoming official, she knew that he filled up that little tiny space in her heart that kept nagging for a mate, even if it was a little odd to think of it that way.

But really, he was her mate, her partner. He made her laugh and giggle like a kid, just from the silly, stupid things he'd do. He knew when she was having a bad day and he would immediately get to work on getting her mind off of whatever happened. He looked at her with thankfulness, just like a puppy would look at someone who saved him from a house fire. She did save him. And he knew that.

And for a moment, as she thought about all of this and looked up at him and noticed that he was looking back at her, she smiled, and looked down at what he had just finished drawing. Lines. Many lines. Horizontal lines and vertical lines and thick lines and thin lines. And it looked like nothing.

That was, until he placed it down on the coffee table in front of him and quickly hurried off into a randomly chosen direction. And she looked over at it and realized that the lines said something if you looked at them from a certain direction. So she got up and walked around the table, and she walked away and she walked close and finally she made out what they said.

"You're Beautiful." It said when you looked at it from the side of the page.

"I love you." It said when you looked at it from the top of the page.

Well, she figured that he couldn't really make it anymore obvious. Granted, he didn't want to be around when she found it out, lest she say something to him about it and he not know how to deal with that. But she let him know, in little ways throughout the remainder of the day, that she had read what it said, and she appreciated the sweet gesture.

And one of the ways she let him know was by giving him the quickest kiss on the cheek the moment he wasn't expecting it.

And that's when it began.

That's when she began doing tiny, microscopic gestures of tender affection towards him. That's when she'd ask if it were alright if she held his pinky, just his pinky finger, and she asked very sincerely because he had a strange thing about his hands being touched without his consent, or being touched at all without consent, because he felt like it violated his personal space. But he made little exceptions for her, because he knew she'd never purposefully harm him unless it was necessary, cases of which he had actually given her full permission to do whatever she felt proper, to kill him even if he had sunk into insanity once more and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Yes, he told her if that ever happened, if he ever tried hurting her, that she could kill him, that he wanted her to.

But this was different from certain death, of course. She asked to hold his pinky. No biggie. And he'd let her. And it was nice, but also nerve wrecking and kind of funny feeling, because when she touched him tenderly and without reason, it both burned and felt good, and he didn't understand it fully. And he thought that maybe it was only when she touched him, so he tried touching her. He would place his hand onto her bare arm, just to see what would happen, and it burned a little less and felt more numb. But he still both enjoyed and hated it. And he hated that he hated it, because he wanted only to enjoy it. He wanted to be able to do all the stuff that those guys in movies do to their girlfriends and wives, because it looked really nice. But when he actually went to do it, it burned. But maybe he just had to get use to it.

Or maybe he had to go all the way, do something big and suffer harder and then the little stuff he did wouldn't hurt him anymore. So one day he just did it. He kissed her, right on the lips. And it felt so strange and new and _good_. And he felt a burn in his cheeks and a numbness on his lips and a heat in the back of his neck and he swore he was having a heart attack. But she came back with just a little pressure, like she had been patiently waiting for this. And she didn't touch him, she didn't dare, because he would probably push her away if she did, so she just sat there. And he pulled away and he looked so red and slightly uncomfortable and very _very_ hot, but he didn't regret it. Despite feeling this way, feeling a little queasy and very uneasy and being able to literally feel his heart beat all over his body, he didn't regret it. And he couldn't figure out why, because he surely could have lived his entire life without ever doing that to her. But it was almost like he didn't want to. And he couldn't figure out if he wanted more or if he wanted to run outside and scream. So he just sat there, and they let it be.

And then it started happening more.

Every few days or so, he found himself getting the sudden urge to kiss her, and being the impulsive person that he was, he went in for it without thinking about the consequences, namely, the way he always felt afterwards. He just had to act on that impulse, it was like a need of his, like eating or using the bathroom. And he knew if he ignored it, it would go away after he got his mind focused on something else, but the next time it came, it would be stronger. And he knew that. So he acted on it while it was still a simple urge rather than a strong one.

But then he had urges, a feeling in his hands, to hold her or do romantic things to her, and he tried to draw the line there. Simple two second pecks were one thing, but holding her hand for an extended period of time or grabbing her and holding her from behind were totally different ones. And although she was purely enjoying this confusing new interaction that he had conjured up between the two of them, it was starting to get her nervous when he walked up to her from out of nowhere, and just stood there staring at her, contemplating whether or not he should do the thing. And then he'd leave, and she just sort of remained confused.

But one night, his confusion in romance quickly became frightening.

She was asleep in her own bed, silently breathing, calmly dreaming, and there he was standing in the corner, the moonlight shining in through the window as he held a knife in his hand.

He wasn't sure on what he was doing, but he had this urge, a mad, intense urge, similar to the one he had when he first tried to kill her.

He was happy with her. He wanted their happiness to last, he wanted to die happily with her.

That's how he justified it.

But he fought it, he tried so hard to fight it.

Because he didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to kill her.

 _So he should make it quick, she wouldn't even scream._

He walked towards her.

He started to wonder in the back of his mind, how beautiful she looks when she sleeps. How much more beautiful she would be with a crimson hue upon her breasts, her blood released from her skin with his kind and loving help-

 _No!_

"Johnny?" He snapped out of it, and looked directly into her eyes. He dropped the knife to the ground, forcing his body to do so. He was fighting an internal battle. He wanted to kill her. But he also wanted her alive.

He didn't think she saw the knife, so he thought of something to say to make her less terrified.

"You're beautiful when you sleep."

"Um, okay? Do you usually watch me when I sleep?"

"No, no I... well, sometimes." He turned and walked away, whispering out "Goodnight" before he rushed to the front door and ran away.

For good.

He couldn't stay there anymore. He couldn't put her at that kind of risk again.

It was over for them.

Forever.

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 **Yeah, the ending was tough to write, it took me a long time until I just said to myself "Forget it, we're ending it this way."**

 **I don't think I'll be coming back to this fandom to do more stories, not anytime soon at least. I've been working on a book right now about a cancer patient and his best friend traveling the country to taste the best beers and eventually end up in Alaska. If that sounds interesting to you, give it a read over on Fictionpress. The name is Life in Glass Bottles, and my penname on there is GorillovePotato.**

 **Until next time,**

 **~The Symmetricalist**


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